Nothing Was As It Should Be
by drakensis
Summary: A series of short AU pieces set in the Deryni books, envisaging events had circumstances turned out differently than they had in the books.
1. The Haldane Tombs

"As both regent an' duke in this kingdom, I hae the power o' high an' low justice, an' authority tae hear evidence an' render judgment. I charge you, Manfred MacInnis, Earl o' Culdi, an' you, Rhun o' Horthness, Earl o' Sheele, with high treason an' sacrilegious murder—"

"I don't recognize your authority to try me!" Manfred said contemptuously.

"I further find ye guilty o' these crimes an' declare yer lives forfeit," Graham continued. "Throw doon yer arms. Ye cannae escape. An' I wouldnae profane this holy place with yer blood—though 'twould be a fittin' end, here before the tomb o' the king whose sacred blood ye spilled."

"Several kings," Sighere added softly. "King Javan also died beneath the blades o' traitors."

Not a soul dared to move. Into the taut, expectant silence that settled after Sighere's words, not a sound intruded save the harsh breathing of the cornered men, Owain's muted protests as he struggled again in Lior's arms, and a single, stifled sob from Michaela. Then, to everyone's surprise, Rhun contemptuously tossed his sword to the floor, where its clangor reverberated through the stone chamber. He reached next to the dagger at his belt.

"Rhun, what are you doing?" Manfred demanded, gaping at him in astonishment, his sword slowly sinking at his side.

Even as he asked it, Rhun spun to plunge his dagger into Manfred's chest, ripping upward as he wrenched it out. Blood gushed from Manfred's mouth even as Michaela screamed and one of the Valoret knights started forward, but Rhun roughly seized the queen by one arm and drew her back along the vaulted chambers of the crypt.

At the same time, a wild-eyed Tammaron elbowed his way through the line of Custodes monks, driving his sword through Lior when the Acting Vicar General tried to flee.

Michaela screamed in horror as the sword plunged through the Custodes and into her son.

"Tammaron, are you mad?" Hubert gasped, backed up against one of the tombs, the china blue eyes wide and horrified. "You just killed the young king!"

Nodding, wild-eyed, Tammaron backed away from Sighere and Graham's swords. "The lad was no true prince and therefore no true king— unless a MacInnis dynasty is to replace the Haldane one. Hubert, did your brother ever tell you about that?"

"Wha' d'ye mean?" Graham demanded, as Hubert's jaw gaped.

"Ask the queen," Tammaron replied, hysteria in his voice. "What was the threat we made to the king after his coronation, your Highness, to ensure that you and he started producing Haldane heirs?'

"Sweet Jesu, no," she whispered, for she knew full well to what he was referring and that it could not possibly be true.

"It was only known among the Five," Tammaron confided, "that if he did not do his duty, there were ample volunteers to deputize for him."

"No!" she sobbed, only Rhun's arm holding her upright.

"But the king was stubborn, and Manfred must have gotten tired of waiting. He would have drugged the wine one night. I trust I can leave further details to your imagination?"

"It isn't true!" Michaela sobbed. Rhys dead, Owain dead...

"She isn't to blame," Tammaron went on. "She never knew. None of us knew until Manfred came back with the king's body. But why else do you think he let the king be killed, when he knew the codicil existed? Because he knew, that the king's death would put his own bastard on the throne! It's Owain MacInnis that I just killed!"

Blackness took the queen and the last thing she heard was a cry of desperate denial. For some reason she thought the voice was that of Rhun the Ruthless.

* * *

Hubert MacInnis stared at Rhun as the pair of them stood by Tammaron - Kheldour blades pointed at them in open menace - and watched as an unfamiliar priest, the mysterious Father Donatus who'd heard Rhys Haldane's last confession, struggled to save the life of the queen.

Something was not right about this scene, not right about how Rhun had been acting. Manfred and Rhun had been close friends, despite their difference over whether to kill the late king. What happened in the crypt had been totally out of character. And it was not the first time, though it was the most blatant. The old Rhun would have had no qualms about having Rhys Haldane bled to death, if it would further his power as a regent—but Rhun had tried to prevent it.

Hubert's keen mind flashed back years to the last months of Rhys' brother's reign and he thought he understood. Javan, possessed of the subtle and dangerous magics of the Deryni, had planted false memories in the archbishop's mind to make himself seem more malleable to the great lords. That discovery had sparked the final decision to rid themselves of the energetic and increasingly enigmatic young king. "What was it the king ordered you to do? Did he tell you to kill the other regents when you got the chance?"

Rhun looked at him sharply, bewilderment suddenly in his eyes.

"I—killed Manfred. I didn't want to, but—I had to."

* * *

The archbishop looked at Michaela Haldane and had to restrain himself from any expression of satisfaction when Donatus sat back on his heels.

"The queen will live," he said with his voice greatly saddened. "I could not save the babe."

No Haldane king with their accursed magic to sit upon the throne. It meant civil war. It meant Hubert's death, most likely here in the crypt for with he, Tammaron and Rhun alive they were still the majority of the Royal Council, something the Kheldour lords couldn't permit to continue. But somehow the Archbishop of Valoret wondered if it might be for the best in the long run.

"It's o'er," Sighere said grimly. He turned an angry face towards the three remaining regents. "A' you happy now? Rhys Haldane was a braw king and could ha' been a great king, so could his brother. An' ye destroyed them both. For what?"

"To keep Gwynedd free of the tyranny Deryni kings have brought it." Tammaron held his head up. "We didn't overthrow the Festils to replace them with Haldanes no better."

"Ye never overthrew the Festils," Graham told him in disgust. "Cinhil Haldane did that - wi' help from the Michaelines an' my grandfather. Ye just oozed out of the earth t' steal away the spoils. Ye murdered Javan, Rhys an' now Owain. Who knows if Alroy might have lived without yer poisons."

Rhun exhaled slowly. "With no Haldane heir there's nothing to stop Marek of Festil returning. Unless there's a strong king in place on the throne."

"No chance o' that now."

"There is one." The Earl of Sheele stared at Sighere. "I'll offer you a bargain, you and your nephew."

"You don't have much to bargain with."

"I've a last codicil to his will. A verbal one perhaps but one that might spare Gwynedd a civil war."

Ailin MacGregor folded his arms. "And what would you want in exchange? Your life?"

"You'll need me long enough to testify to the codicil. But beyond that... I'm not a fool. No attainder. Your word that our sons - mine, Tammaron's, Iver, even Richard Murdoch - that they succeed to our lands and titles. Let your revenge end with us here."

"An' in return?" asked Graham of Claibourne.

Rhun's mind flicked back the days to the day he'd learned that Rhys Haldane had outflanked them all with an addition to his will.

 _"If I die before an heir of mine comes of age, the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of Marley are irrevocably appointed as regents, regardless of whoever else you ramrod through the council. And before you even have a chance to kill them, they'll have appointed their own successors—and their successors will appoint successors. Kheldour will have a say in the next regency."_

 _"Kheldour will be running the kingdom," Rhun said testily, "and the next thing you know, Kheldour will be providing the next king."_

 _"I don't think so," Rhys Michael replied. "And if they did, they couldn't do much worse than your lot have done. You never gave Alroy a chance to be a real king, and you killed Javan when it looked as if he might be one. And you've only been keeping me alive until you were sure you had an heir and a spare to mold in exactly the image you wanted. If it isn't to be a free Haldane king on the throne of Gwynedd, Rhun, I think I might prefer one from Kheldour. The Duke of Claibourne would make an excellent king. Or maybe Kheldour can give my sons a free crown."_

"I told him he was a fool. I told him you'd be running the kingdom, that you'd supplant his sons," Rhun said with brutal honesty. "He told me if there next king wasn't a Haldane, that he'd prefer one from Kheldour."

Hubert cried out in dismay. "You can't be serious!"

The Kheldour lords turned to Donatus who spread his hands. "I know nothing of this."

"Call in Drummond." Rhun grinned thinly. "He was there."

Tammaron turned his head to Rhun. "Truly?"

"Don't thank me, you bloody fool. Even a blind man would have known there was no MacInnis blood in Owain Haldane."

Tammaron's face went white.

"Aye. You're the man that ended the Haldane line. A fine legacy for the FitzArthurs."

* * *

Nothing was as it should be.

The King of Gwynedd accepted the fealty of Tambert Quinnell - for the ten year old Duke of Cassan had forsaken his grandfather's family name. His father Fane was discreetly absent from the coronation but Tambert's mother and uncle stood by him for Fulk FitzArthur's loyalty had been attested to and he would inherit Tammaron's other titles and lands over his less trusted brothers.

As the Cassan party moved aside, Cathan braced himself and took Michaela's hand, guiding her to stand before the great lion throne and the man in the crimson mantle worked with golden lions and silver saltires. He felt her trembling as they dropped to their knees before Graham.

Rather than extending his hands for theirs, the king leant forwards to Michaela. "I would much rather 'twas I who knelt t' your son as I did t' his father," he murmured.

She sobbed in agreement.

"Michaela, Countess of Rhendall, I am prepared t' hear your oath."

Her hand left Cathan's and she placed them between the royal hand's. "I, Michaela, Countess of Rhendall, do become your vassal of life and limb, and do homage for all the lands of Rhendall, held of your granting and before then of your son Hrorik. Faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and die, against all manner of folk, so help me God."

"This I do hear, Michaela of Rhendall, an' I, for my part, pledge the protection of Gwynedd to you and all your people, to defend you from every creature with all my power, giving loyalty for loyalty and justice for honor. This is the word of Graham Donal Angus MacEwan, King of Gwynedd, King of Gwynedd, Lord of Meara and Mooryn and the Purple March, and Overlord of Eastmarch. So help me God."

King and Countess both laid their hands on the Gospel held by Ailin MacGregor, the new Archbishop of Valoret, and kissed the cover of the good book.

Michaela rose and stepped aside into the company of Anne of Cassan, while the royal eyes now turned to Cathan, who by private agreement would be the new dynasty's strong - and Deryni - hand in the north of Gwynedd.

"Cathan, Duke of Claibourne, I am prepared t'hear your oath."

Nothing was as it should be.


	2. The Womb of a Queen

The King rose to be invested with the symbols of his office. Priests fastened the crimson jewelled robe of State around his shoulders, touched his heels with golden spurs. As chain mail clanked against naked steel beyond the heavy doors of the cathedral, Archbishop Corrigan took the Ring of Fire from Duncan, murmured a blessing over it, held it aloft for an instant, slipped it on the King's left forefinger.

Then he motioned Jared forward with the Sword of State.

 _That wasn't as it should be._

It was the moment they had been waiting for, for even with the Ring of Fire on the royal hand, there could be no magic until the Haldane had been sealed by the Sign of the Defender. The Duke of Cassan unsheathed the great sword and gave it into Corrigan's hands, watched anxiously as the Archbishop prayed that the sword be ever used to dispense justice.

Finally, Corrigan presented the sword to the King. And Nigel, with an anxious glance at Jared, touched his lips to the weapon and handed it over to Duncan. As the sword, exchanged hands, the King briefly touched the Gryphon seal Duncan held in trust for his cousin, then froze in dismay.

 _That wasn't as it should be._

For there had been no sensation of power when he touched the seal, no surge of promise fulfilled, no sealing of the force foretold by Brion's ritual verse. His anguished eyes sought Duncan's frantically, and the Deryni priest too felt a sick queasiness rise in his throat.

Somewhere, they had failed! Was Morgan's Gryphon was not the Sign of the Defender? Or did it have no power out of the hands of the Duke of Corwyn?

There were loud footsteps outside the cathedral now, and the people grew hushed with fearful expectation. As Corrigan, unaware of what was going on, continued with the investiture, held out the jewelled sceptre of Gwynedd to Nigel, the cathedral doors swung open with a muffled crash, and a gust of icy wind whistled down the nave.

As Duncan turned his head slightly toward the rear of the church, there was no doubt in his mind what he would see. Nor was he disappointed.

He looked - and saw Charissa, Duchess of Tolan, Lady of the Silver Mists, the Shadowed One - silhouetted against the open doorway, veiled in pale grey and blue, shrouded in living mist which twined around her in a sinister aura.

Nigel didn't even move as the doors crashed back on their hinges, though he yearned to turn his head and look. For even as the sound shattered the silence, he realized that to satisfy his curiosity prematurely might only make him lose his nerve. He had only once seen Charissa, long ago and at great distance, and he wasn't sure how he would react.

Kneeling with one's back to the enemy was not generally recommended, either - he knew that too. He was probably taking a terrible chance by remaining in that position while his enemy advanced, and under other circumstances he would never have even considered such a strategic blunder. But since he was helpless anyway, it should make little difference. There was a point where theory had to yield to practicality, and frankly he wasn't sure just what he'd do when he did turn around.

He had to have time to think. If he had to bluff - and that seemed inevitable at this point - he would also have to have some clear purpose in mind beyond mere survival. He didn't think he would freeze up when he faced her - but there was no sense tempting fate. Uncle Richard had taught him that years ago.

He heard footsteps echoing down the nave and knew that his adversary approached, that she was not alone. He hazarded a glance to his left and saw that Duncan was signalling the Archbishop to proceed with the ceremony.

Nigel nodded to himself in approval. Duncan was right. The farther along in the ceremony they got, the better were Nigel's legal claims to the throne, and the better were his chances of discovering a way out of his quandary.

Archbishop Corrigan took the jeweled crown of Gwynedd from its velvet pillow and raised it above Nigel's head. The footsteps were much closer now, and Nigel saw Corrigan's eyes flick over his head to the aisle beyond, saw him wet his lips nervously as he started the invocation for coronation. To the right, Meraude's face went pale as the footsteps came to an ominous halt at the transept.

"Bless, we beseech Thee, O Lord -" Corrigan began.

"Stop!" commanded a low, female voice.

Corrigan froze, the crown poised over Nigel's head, then quickly lowered the crown and looked at Nigel apologetically. His glance flicked over the Haldane's head again, and then he stepped back. There was the clatter of steel on the sanctuary steps, then silence. Carefully, Nigel rose from his knees to face the intruders.

The significance of the mailed gauntlet on the steps before him was unmistakable, as were the armed men lined up in the aisle behind the woman. Looking down the aisle, Nigel could see at least three dozen warriors, some in the black flowing robes of Charissa's Moorish emirs, the others in more conventional mail and battle attire. Two of the Moors flanked their mistress to either side, arms folded impassively across their chests, their faces dark and grim under the black velvet jubbas.

But it was the woman herself to whom Nigel's attention returned again and again. For all that he'd heard descriptions they fell short of the reality. Charissa was beautiful!

It was obvious that Charissa had anticipated this reaction and capitalized on it, quite evident that she had planned her appearance accordingly, for maximum effect.

A gown of blued-grey silk flowed from a high, jewelled collar around the ivory neck, and the whole was covered against the cold by a cloak of deep grey velvet and fox. The long, pale hair was coiled and braided in a high coronet at the top of her head, a small sapphire coronet encircling it. And the entire shining mass was lightly covered with a gossamer veil of blue which spilled down her back and softened the determined expression on her face.

That expression was what finally brought Nigel to his senses, made him re-evaluate his first impression. For the coiled hair resembled nothing more than a heavy, golden crown, shrouded slightly in gossamer blue softness-symbolic in her mind, no doubt, of the other crown she hoped to wear before the day was over.

She nodded greeting as Nigel's eyes met hers, then glanced meaningfully at the mailed gauntlet on the steps between them. He did not miss the significance of that glance, and suddenly he was coldly angry. He knew he must hold this creature impotent - at least until a way of dealing with her could be found.

"What would you in the House of the Lord?" he demanded quietly, a plan beginning to form. His grey eyes burned with a cold fire reminiscent of the old Brion, and he seemed to feel another mantle upon his shoulders, one of royal dignity.

Charissa raised one eyebrow, then bowed mockingly. "What do I want?" she asked silkily. "Why, your death, of course, Nigel. Surely you had some inkling. Or didn't your brother see fit to warn you of the fact?"

"Your insinuation is as unwelcome here as you are," Nigel replied coldly. "Begone before you tax our patience to the breaking point Armed retinues are not welcome in this House."

Charissa smiled unconcernedly. "Bold words, my noble princeling." She gestured toward the gauntlet. "Unfortunately, you cannot be rid of me that easily. I have challenged your right to rule Gwynedd. Surely you will agree that I cannot now leave until that challenge has been satisfied."

His gaze flashed grimly to the men behind Charissa, then back to the woman. Charissa, he knew, was trying to goad him into the inevitable duel of magic. But he also knew that without his brother's powers, he would fail. Fortunately, there was a way to forestall the battle for a while and still satisfy honor. Meanwhile, perhaps he could gather his wits about him for the decisive confrontation which would eventually follow. He glanced at Charissa's men again, then made his decision.

"Very well. As King of Gwynedd, we accept your challenge. And under the ancient rules of challenge, our Champion shall fight yours at such time and place as shall be determined at a later date. Is that agreeable?" He was tempted to take up the gauntlet himself but pride was a luxury he could not afford. Morgan must be riding from Cardosa by now and besides adding his wit and lore to deciphering the riddle of Haldane magic, the Deryni Duke was a peerless swordsman.

A nicker of anger crossed Charissa's face for just an instant, but she quickly masked it. She glanced at the gauntlet again, then nodded. "Well played, Nigel Haldane. You have postponed our confrontation for perhaps five minutes, since the time and place are here and now. You have no choice in the matter and once it is done, I will call you out again until you stand forward to meet me in person. My Champion stands yonder to defend me."

As she gestured toward the right side of the cathedral, lan stepped from the ranks of the noblemen with a sly grin on his face and glided to Charissa's side. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword as he gazed mildly across the distance between himself and Nigel.

Nigel's felt his face tighten at the betrayal. He'd believed the Earl of Eastmarch to be an ally if not a friend. As he thought about it, he realized that lan's statements had often tended to encourage the loose talk about Morgan over the past three months. His unfinished statements, his sly innuendoes - of course. In fact, he must also have some Deryni power himself.

None of this showed on Nigel's face, however. Only his eyes narrowed slightly as he turned his attention to lan, his voice low and dangerous in the stillness. "You would dare to raise steel against me, lan? And in this House?"

"Aye, and in a thousand like it," lan retorted, steel whispering against steel as he drew his blade and bowed silkily. "And now," he gestured with his sword, "Will your Champion stand forth to do battle? Who will you call on?"

Jared reached for his sword but Nigel held out one hand. The treacherous Ian was more than twenty years younger than the loyal duke, but Nigel felt he had his measure.

Nigel's arm was not long enough to stop another though.

Roisian Alyce Haldane descended the chancel steps and swept up the gauntlet. An instant later and Charissa barely caught her own gage before it smacked her in the face.

"What's this, girl?" Charissa's voice held more mockery but there was an uncertainty in her eyes. This wasn't what she'd expected and she disliked that.

Not yet fourteen, Roisian ignored the mockery, ignored her mother's cry of fear and outrage. She stepped forward, the Eye of Rom - so that was where it was! - in her ear. "My father defeated the Marluk fifteen years ago. I believe I can deal with the Marluk's daughter."

"Get out of the way, princess." Apparently outraged at being upstaged, Ian Howell reached forward to take Roisian's shoulder. Nigel seized the state sword from Duncan, ready to defend his niece. Her own hands moved swiftly however and a tooled leather flask was open.

The Earl probably didn't even see it before Roisian splashed the contents across his lower face. "What... I..." His eyes went wide. "What was in that flask?"

She threw it to the floor, sending the flask skidding across the tiles to end before Charissa. "The same drug she used on my father, from the same flask even. I have accepted your challenge, Charissa, and if I have to remove your champion further then I'm prepared to do so."

Charissa nodded with new respect. "Aside, Ian. You've made enough of a fool of yourself."

The Earl of Eastmarch might have protested more if he'd been able to focus his eyes on any of them. Bran Coris and Jared's son Kevin stepped forward and disarmed him but no one was paying attention to him anymore.

Roisian angled herself slightly as she approached Charissa further and came to a halt standing on one of the saint's seals in the floor. "Well?"

"Does the Haldane send a mere girl to contend with me?"

"I'm older than you were, when your father died." Roisian bowed slightly. "Art thou ready to begin, My Lady Charissa."

Hogun Gwernach's daughter stepped forward to face Brion Haldane's where she stood upon the seal of Saint Camber. "We are ready, My Lady Roisian."


	3. The Courtroom of Kings

Nigel Haldane could not remember when he first laid eyes upon the great golden throne of Gwynedd, backed by the vibrant crimson and gold heraldry of the kingdom's Haldane Kings. It had been his father's, his brother's, his nephew's and he had stood before it or beside it on so many times...

Page, squire, knight. Duke, which meant leader in war. Prince, which meant first among men.

Now king, which meant crushing responsibility, guilt and grief.

Lord, take this cup from me...

But he had been bred to duty and he had given his word. An oath as sacred as that to Meraude, though lacking all of its joy. And at least today he would not have to sit on the throne.

For the life of him, he could not say if that made it better or worse as he dropped to one knee and placed his hands between those of the man sat upon the throne of Gwynedd. "I, Nigel Cluim Gwydion Rhys Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Duke of Haldane, Lord of the Purple March do become your vassal of life and limb, and do homage for all the lands of Gwynedd, held by right of succession. Faith and truth will I..." His breath caught as it never had before, but he forced himself on: "...bear unto you, to live and die, against all manner of folk, so help me God."

The man upon the throne Wencit of Torenth, closed his hands briefly upon Nigel's. "I, Wenzel Zsubit Kyprian Nimur Furstan, accept your fealty and pledge justice for loyalty, reward for virtue and death for betrayal. Thus on heaven, thus on earth, amen."

There was a rumble through the court - thinly populated for the lords of Gwynedd had in many cases made their pledges already and been dispersed. A small host of Torenthi stood in a strong block on one side of the room but they seemed to have little more certainty of what the future held than their western counterparts.

A subtle twitch of Wencit's hands signalled for Nigel to rise and he took the familiar position of standing at the right hand of the throne. If he fixed his eyes forward he might almost deceive himself as to who sat upon it.

"Upon the morrow, the late King will be laid rest among his ancestors." Wencit's voice was as polished as the rest of his courtly manners. It filled the room silky precision. "Let it be known that the late prince, though my adversary, was worthy of my respect, and yours. In light of the solemn purpose of the morrow, I shall not prolong today's court beyond the most necessary of requirements."

Out of the corner of his eye, Nigel saw Thomas Cardiel lower his eyes slightly in relief. It was hard to remember anything else, but the Bishop of Dhassa had lost a close friend upon Llyndruth Meadows. The new king made a mental note to do what he could to help Cardiel. The matter of Loris still needed to be settled and Cardiel remained prominent amid the men who must settle the treacherous Archbishop's fate.

"I deem it necessary, however, that those of ducal rank and higher, must offer their oaths and support to the King of Gwynedd and his Overlord upon this day, rather than waiting for the formal coronation when the counts and barons must join them in that." Wencit's mustache twitched slightly. "Bishop Cardiel, do you serve as our herald in this."

Cardiel swallowed. "Let the Prince of Meara step forwards to make his obeisance to our King."

Nigel saw a shadow in the eyes of his son as Conall dropped to his knees and, their hands joined, swore vassalage to his father, homage to his king... and with jarringly unfamiliar phrases in the oaths, to the overlord of Gwynedd. There had been some talk that Wencit might style himself Emperor but for now at least the tall King of Torenth was restraining himself.

Next called was the Duke of Claibourne and Ewan MacEwan was stiff with both age and pride as he placed his hands between Nigel's. There was an unspoken question in his eyes: though most of the lord's retinues had returned to their own demesnes, enough Haldane men were in Rhemuth that the Torenthi could be overwhelmed - not quickly or painlessly, but it could be done.

Nigel's own eyes had the unwavering answer. He had been haunted at night by the possibility but to break faith with oaths sworn was not in him. And so many of the Torenthi must be Deryni. It was outside his calculation what might happen if he yielded to temptation.

With a muttered oath that might have been mistaken for prayer if one didn't listen too closely, Ewan said his own oaths and glared dourly at the throne as he backed away.

"Your grace of Torenth, the Duke of Cassan is dead," Cardiel reminded them. 'By your order' was not added but everyone heard it anyway. The deed was already infamous. "His sons are also dead and he has no close kin of the male line."

"Indeed, yes." Wencit leant forwards slightly. "Too powerful a land to be left without a strong hand as matters stand. Kierney might do well with a younger son but Cassan must have a ruler." He raised his hand and indicated one man - black of beard and hair, the latter worn long and tightly braided. "Mahael, come you here."

From a distance Mahael might have looked almost Haldane but his eyes were dark and heavy lidded in a way that made mockery of the comparison.

"Mahael is the Count of Amassy, and brother to Duke Lionel of Arjenol. A man of noble blood and upbringing." Wencit's voice lowered perhaps a fraction. "He was husband to my own daughter and, alas briefly, father to my grandchild. Mahael, would you swear to King Nigel as his loyal Duke of Cassan?"

No question who he is loyal to, Nigel thought. A Dernyni, no doubt. Worse for the folk of Cassan, an outsider.

"I stand ready to serve, my king."

He couldn't bring himself to speak at first, but Nigel knew that rebelling in this would be no better than any other form so he gestured for the man to kneel and accepted his hands and his formal submission.

Wencit held up his hand to still Cardiel. "Yes, Bishop, one need not remind me of the Duke of Corwyn. A shame he had not wed, and thus ends an ancient and noble bloodline. I do not think that his lands should be left leaderless, particularly with rebellion so recently rife there."

Again he summoned forth one of his Torenthi, a man who shared much in feature with Mahael. This, it seemed, was the new Duke of Cassan's brother, Count Teymuraz of Brustarkia. Nigel did not have to guess at Deryni blood (though Arjenol's heritage was no mystery to him), for the man let his shields light up the hall slightly as he said his oaths.

Trying to shake me? He might be new to kingship, but Nigel remained a prince and was sure he kept his eyes cold and level as he accepted the oath. I may not be Deryni, but steel kills as well as any spell and you aren't receiving a safe sinecure, Duke Teymuraz. Warin de Gray left our camp almost before Kelson's death was known and I doubt he went anywhere save Corwyn.

It was a relief after those two that Wencit made no proposal when Cardiel observed that Carthmoor was, of course, Nigel's own demesne. Not the first time it had been granted to a younger son who later succeeded to Gwynedd. Rather than seeing the towns and villages he had ruled - first in name and then in truth - for all his life passed to another Torenthi, Nigel was able to invest Rory with those responsibilities. Pray god that Rory would not be fifth Duke to drink from this bitter cup.

"Enough, Nigel." If Wencit could fill the room with his voice, he could also murmur so quietly that no one closer than Cardiel could have overheard these words. "The rest we can manage in more private council."

Nigel nodded, feeling as if he was a puppet on the other man's strings. He'd never felt that way with Brion or Kelson. "Court is dismissed," he announced firmly and then stepped aside, nodding with stark deference as Wencit rose and turned towards the stairs that led to - among other places - the chamber of the Royal Council.

* * *

In that room with its long, polished table and dark-stained walls, Wencit unhesitatingly took the throne that had belonged to Brion. He glanced at the table and then ran one finger down a gash that Nigel's brother had made once with a dagger in emphasis of a particularly trying point. Automatically standing by his usual seat, Nigel recalled many dark day here. That nightmarish meeting when Morgan had so nearly...

No, there was no use dwelling upon it.

There were four of them, not a formal convening of the council. Himself, Cardiel, Wencit and one more of his kinsmen - this one with paler eyes and a manner Nigel found less... adversarial than many of the foreigners who had thrust themselves into Rhemuth's halls and apartments.

"A tale here," Wencit mused and Nigel blinked before realising he meant the scar in the table. "Sit," he said, but indicated the seat next to him - where Jehana had sat. "We are no longer enemies, King Nigel and thus we shall not find ourselves on opposite sides of this table."

"Do you believe that?"

"I say that. And since you are a faithful vassal and a man of honour, you will also say that. In time, men will come to believe." He did not lack confidence, Wencit of Torenth. "You've met two of Matyas' brothers now, he is the youngest of them."

"Lord Matyas." Nigel inclined his head courteously as he sat where he was directed. "I regret I have no further duchies to distribute you."

Wencit's lips pursed. "Your anger is to be expected. I also expect you to control it."

Matyas inclined his own head. "Frankly, your grace, I would be content to return to my vineyards at Komnene and trouble you no longer but my king commands and I obey."

"Unlike his brothers, Matyas has studied outside of Torenth," the Furstan informed Nigel and Cardiel. "He's more the diplomat, which will make him well suited to sit on your Royal Council as my ambassador. If you wish to invite Mahael or Teymuraz to do likewise then you may, but I do not insist upon it. They will do us both more good keeping their new lands in order."

"They seem ambitious men."

"Ambitious and able. My cousins, so the first would follow. The second, not so reliably. Just as I hold you to your oaths, I expect you to hold them to theirs. If you cannot rule them then I will regret my misjudgement and act accordingly. Do you understand?"

"I do."

"Good. It will please you, no doubt, that I will not remain in Rhemuth overly long. It will serve nothing if a large presence of my people here causes relations to falter in the first steps. Both our kingdoms will lower their guards only slowly."

Nigel nodded slowly. "I agree."

"Then you will understand that the young Duke of Carthmoor will be accompanying me."

"I had anticipated you would want hostages."

Wencit steepled his fingers. "Yes. The young Earl of Derry too, since I was rough with him earlier and he is too valuable a man to expend."

"He is intensely loyal to Morgan."

"Yes. There is an eastern saying you might not have come across. The truest victory is not to annihilate one's foes, it is to make them your allies."

"He won't serve the man who killed Morgan."

Wencit tilted his head to one side. "I can be very convincing. In any event, he and your son will acquire some courtly polish and perhaps suitable marriages. Carthmoor may also be able to learn some of what we Deryni have to teach."

"Rory knows nothing of magic, less even than I do. And I don't have the slightest idea who could activate the Haldane powers." Nigel shook his head. "So far as I know, Kelson and Morgan took those secrets to the grave."

Matyas looked over at Cardiel. "Does this concern you, Bishop?"

"Before he died," the Bremagne-born bishop said calmly, "Denis Arilan and I had some interesting conversations on the topic of Deryni. You were fostered in Andelon, I believe. I have some connection with the principality so while I don't claim much personal knowledge of Deryni I know that many lands have a less... negative impression of them than Gwynedd."

Wencit's voice was deep with sarcasm. "How very broadminded of you."

"I also know that the Statutes of Ramos are the product of scars left on Gwynedd's people by some Deryni." Cardiel didn't shrink from the challenge, Nigel thought admiringly. "If your race are not by nature ungodly, King Wencit, then nor are they unreservedly saintly."

Very slowly, the King of Torenth raised one hand and pulled on the end of his moustache. "Your nephew had a way of attracting talented adherents," he noted. "A few more years and he would have been truly dangerous."

"I was very proud of Kelson." Nigel's voice somehow didn't tremble.

"Understandably." Wencit lowered his hand and made a dismissive gesture. "Get you gone, Bishop Cardiel. Tell your peers that I have but two commands for your Curia. Abide by them and I will not interfere in the Church of Gwynedd any further."

Cardiel rose and bowed, pectoral cross swaying. "The first I can guess. The Statutes of Ramos to be revoked."

"I do not demand that you love the Deryni as God commands that thou shalt love thy neighbour," Wencit confirmed, "But no longer will they be subject to systematic persecution."

"I will tell them that." The bishop made no comment on the likely reaction, although anyone with any wits must have known it will come. "And besides that."

"Besides that, Loris is mine."

"You want him?" asked Nigel.

Wencit smiled tightly. "I want him dead, Haldane. But I will not make a martyr of him. Instead, I will take him to Beldour and let him rot away in a gilded cage surrounded by those he hates, an example to everyone of the depths to which Gwynedd's church had sunk. You may assure the Curia, however, that his suffering will be merely spiritual."

Matyas cleared his throat. "One further point, before you go, Bishop?"

"Yes?"

Wencit's own brow was as furrowed as Cardiel's.

The lord of Komnene unfolded a document and slipped it deftly in front of his king. "You're an uncle of Countess Richenda of Marley, I believe. The dowager countess, that is."

"Ah yes." Wencit's face smoothed. "Very good, Matyas. Be so good as to advise her that I will speak with herself and her son after Kelson's funeral." Gwynedd's overlord seemed to find this amusing. "Her husband served me well and it's important that a king should reward that."

"I doubt she has much want of your gratitude, your grace. I will tell her."

"She has her son back, which I was not in any way required to allow," Nigel's overlord pointed out drily. "I don't think that is lost on her."

"She is a formidable woman," Nigel warned, wary of bringing wrath down on the lady - she had, after all, been faultlessly loyal. "And Marley is a county of Gwynedd."

"Then I shall be sure not to introduce her to my sister," the other king snorted. "Don't worry, I won't ask you to find a spare duchy for young Brendan. I have Tolan should I find that for some reason suitable."


End file.
